


I Want You to Hit Me as Hard as You Can

by impassivetemerity



Series: I Want You to Hit Me as Hard as You Can [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blood, Broken Noses, Fight Club AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-06
Updated: 2013-04-06
Packaged: 2017-12-07 16:27:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/750564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impassivetemerity/pseuds/impassivetemerity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What happened?” Feuilly stalks off to the kitchen, opening himself a beer and grabbing one for Bahorel before coming back to the couch. </p><p>“Jean Prouvaire happened.” His beer is pressed into the other side of his jaw, eliciting a laugh from him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Want You to Hit Me as Hard as You Can

**Author's Note:**

  * For [capeswithhoods](https://archiveofourown.org/users/capeswithhoods/gifts).



> I had gotten the prompt Fight me from an askbox meme, and the pairing requested was Bahorel/Jehan. Naturally this got way out of hand and turned into an AU of its own with multiple chapters.

_-Crunch-_

\---

A shadow looms over Jehan’s notebook, blocking out the line he had been working on. He looks up, eyes meeting a very bruised Bahorel, a rim of deep blue-black surrounding one of his eyes. The older student smiles, wincing once the stretch of skin pulls at a scab that’s been ripped open once too many times today.

“Working on another poem?”

Jehan nods, offering a small smile.

“Bruised again today, I see.”  A note of worry pushes into his voice, the startling regularity that Bahorel shows up with cuts and bruises to the meetings of the ABC has started to become cause for concern.

Broad shoulders shrug nonchalantly, though Bahorel’s grin grows, clearly proud of his black eye, split lip and who knows what else underneath his shirt. So it was from fighting Jehan decides, probably a bar fight that turned into an all out brawl.

“What was it that he said?” The curiosity outweighs any nervousness about being brushed off and getting told that it was none of his business.

“Huh?”

“The person you got into a fight with. You don’t go starting fistfights without a good reason.”

Bahorel laughs, a loud noise that made Jehan jump the first time he had heard it.

“I can’t really talk about it, but I promise it isn’t like that.”

A light brow arches up, “Oh?”

“Do you really want to know?” It sounds like a challenge, and Bahorel crouches next to Jehan, now at eye level with the younger student, his grin turning conspiratorial.

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.”

From his backpack Bahorel produces a notebook that looks like it’s been through the wringer—is that blood flecked on one corner?—and flips through pages filled with lists of names with tally marks next to them until he finds a blank page.

“Pen?” he asks, holding a hand with scraped knuckles out. Jehan presses the ball point pen he had been writing into Bahorel’s hand, watching with mild interest as he scribbles an address and time down.

“Be there tonight at that time. And uh...wear something you don’t mind getting ruined.”

\---

In retrospect Jehan shouldn’t have been surprised by the fact the address lead to a building which he suspected was abandoned. It was on the outskirts of the city, a short enough distance for him to ride his bike to, but he almost wished he had a car to drive instead. It would be a little safer in any case, especially in this area.

He sighs, hopping off of his bike and pushing it to an iron bar that looked relatively secure, shrugging his backpack off of his shoulders so he could get the lock stowed away in it free. A loud roar breaks his concentration, the sound of Bahorel’s voice easily recognisable in the din. Shouting starts not soon after, raucous and masculine, pointing to a fight of some sort. Jehan nudges the kickstand down with the toe of a worn sneaker, sliding the lock into place and pushing it closed.  He slips the key into one of the zippered pockets on the inside of his backpack and picks it up, heading into the building.

What awaits him is a sea of shirtless men—and a girl clad in a sports bra and shorts that he’s seen around campus, one of Cosette’s friends named Eponine, if he recalls correctly—in a wide circle where he assumes there are two people fighting, judging by the sound of skin colliding against skin. Bahorel is nowhere to be seen, but it doesn’t seem like he’s in the midst of a fight either. While Jehan looks around a hand comes to rest on his shoulder, giving it a light squeeze.

“I thought you weren’t coming.” Bahorel is smiling, clearly relieved by the sight of the other student. A flush works across Jehan’s cheeks, eyes drifting away from Bahorel’s naked torso and down to the dirt floor.

“What is this?” he asks, watching the movement of bodies in the circle as the fight breaks up.

“Fight club.” A simple answer that doesn’t answer much at all, but Bahorel shrugs like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

One of the men coming out of the circle has a bloody nose, and the other has a hand pressing to his side, wheezing and coughing in an attempt to catch his breath. Both of them wear broad smiles, radiating sheer manic adrenaline fuelled glee. Jehan recognises the smiles as the one Bahorel often wears when doing something reckless and irresponsible that lands him in the police station or the campus security office. One of them looks over to Bahorel, eyes lighting up as he sees Jehan, an open mouthed grin revealing that he’s bleeding from the mouth too.

“Fresh meat?” he slurs enthusiastically.

“I dunno, depends on how tonight goes.” Bahorel replies vaguely, his grin dropping a little.

“First night, gotta fight.”

“He didn’t really—...?”

“It’s fine. I’ll do it.” Jehan cuts off Bahorel, taking the whole suggestion in stride. The student looks down at Jehan incredulously.

“You sure about that?”

The question is met with a nod as Jehan starts towards the centre of the circle, noting the cardboard set on the dirt floor, for was he assumes is for cushioning impact against it. A round of cheering comes from a few members of the crowd around them.

\---

_-Crunch-_

The noise that Bahorel’s nose makes when Jehan’s fist collides with it causes everyone to fall silent minus the owner of said nose.

“Aww _fugh_ ,” is the only thing he says, hands flying up to the crimson fountain that has become his nose.

“I thingh ig’s brogen.”

Jehan wants to apologise and even starts to, until it’s cut off by the loud whoop let out by his opponent. Despite the profuse and frankly alarming amount of blood coming from his nose, Bahorel looks jubilant; a wide, bloody grin starting to peek out from under his large hand. Another sickening crunch is heard as the older student pushes his nose back into place for the moment, though it doesn’t do much to stem the blood flow. Bahorel’s hand moves from his nose, moving down to be raised as fists again, white tape accented by splashes of wet, shimmering red. Jehan makes a mental note of it, deciding that he may just want to write a poem about this very moment.

The down time doesn’t last for long, not when Bahorel starts swinging playfully, not connecting any rough hits just yet. Each rap of his fists against Jehan’s bare skin is a love tap, a kiss of knuckles that the poet finds romantic in too many of the right ways. He responds in kind, but with bruising, aggressive kisses from bare knuckles into the larger student’s side, planting one on the curve of his collar bone, where he had thought about trailing his lips one day.

A first, vicious hit is landed on Jehan after he punches Bahorel in the stomach, which feels like trying to punch a girder made of steel. It catches the younger student on the cheek, causing his jaw to pop in a flash of pain as his head keeps moving with the extension of Bahorel’s arm. He takes a few quick steps back, trying to draw the older student in, baiting him with the promise of another few exchanges that Jehan was sure he couldn’t resist.  

As predicted, Bahorel does follow him with one long stride, following his last punch with a quick one-two which Jehan blocks with already battered arms. He’ll be sore later, after the adrenaline wears off, but it wasn’t anything a long, hot shower and some aspirin couldn’t cure temporarily once he got back to his dorm. An opening caused by his block gives Bahorel the opportunity to drop his arm, delivering a punishing punch along the line of Jehan’s cheek bone. He can feel the skin split, along with the soft ooze of warm blood on his cheek. An ice pack tucked into the back of his freezer was added to the mental list of things he needed when he got home, sure that it would take the inevitable swelling down if he let it sit against his cheek until the liquid in it was warm.

Jehan slips around Bahorel, moving to his right to buy himself a little time and to bait the other student again, putting two or three steps distance between them. After righting himself and turning to face Jehan, Bahorel grins wolfishly, the menace only increased by all of the dried blood on his lips. He swings wild, just to draw the younger student into false confidence, and Bahorel doesn’t miss the genuine smile that spreads across Jehan’s lips. What he does miss is the feeling of stiff, ink stained fingers on his arm, and the slide of a foot beneath his own.

However, the sensation of being off of his feet and slammed into the thin layer of cardboard quickly alerts Bahorel to the fact he had been flipped using his own weight. Jehan’s knee is pressed into his sternum, a pinpoint of pressure that was growing increasingly more uncomfortable, a sign that he should possibly tap out. Eventually Bahorel does decide to tap out, fingers drumming lightly against Jehan’s pale, freckle kissed calf. 

Glaring light blocks out most of Bahorel’s view of Jehan’s face, though he does see the poet’s smile grow into a full out grin. The knee against his sternum moves, dropping down to rest next to a hip while Jehan’s weight settles easily on the older student’s waist. Before he can say anything or ask any questions Jehan’s lips settle on his own, teeth brushing against Bahorel’s split lower lip, tongue flicking over the wound gently. As soon as it starts the kiss is over, Jehan’s weight against him disappearing as well. The last thing Bahorel sees of him before pushing himself off of the floor is the flash of his light hair disappearing into the sea of stunned fight club members.

\---

The air outside was comparatively cool to the stifling, stale air inside of the abandoned warehouse, night had turned the beautiful, warm day into a frigid one, and for once Jehan was glad he had the foresight to bring a jacket. He had slipped his shoes and shirt on before he left the building, far enough away that Bahorel wouldn’t be able to catch up immediately if he pulled himself off of the floor right after Jehan had bolted.  From his backpack Jehan pulled a light jacket, adorned with flowers he had silk screened on to it, tugging it on and zipping it up before attacking his bike lock. He opened it swiftly, shoving it into his backpack in a rush. If he hurried he could have a potential start on Bahorel if he had decided to chase him, hopefully he could get back to the dorm before he even decided on what to do.

A storm of gravel is the only thing left behind once Jehan starts pedalling, making it home in record time. Before his roommate can ask any questions Jehan disappears into the bathroom, the sound of the shower cutting off any hopes of conversation about why he’s covered in blood and has the beginnings of a black eye.

\---

“You look like shit,” Feuilly says, once he gets a good look at his roommate.

“I kinda feel like pounded shit right now,” Bahorel offers, taking the bag of frozen vegetables that’s been in the freezer since he moved in off of his eye.

If he could smell, Bahorel was sure that Feuilly’s fingers would smell like motor oil as they brushed over the line of a bruise under his eye socket. He winces as they press a little too hard, getting a little too close to his bandaged nose.

“Sorry I missed tonight, I woulda clocked out early if someone told me you were getting your ass trounced.”

“It was a spur of the moment thing.” The improvised ice pack is moved to Bahorel’s jaw as he speaks, though it’s almost a little too warm to be called an ice pack by now.

“What happened?” Feuilly stalks off to the kitchen, opening himself a beer and grabbing one for Bahorel before coming back to the couch.

“Jean Prouvaire happened.” His beer is pressed into the other side of his jaw, eliciting a laugh from him.

“Prouvaire? You mean the kid with the braid? Really adorable, likes to write poetry.”

“That’s the one,” Bahorel responds with a grin, taking a swig of his beer, “he likes to break noses and knows how to steal a goddamn heart, too.”

Feuilly raises an eyebrow, taking a large drink from the brown glass bottle. He makes a note to check his schedule later tonight and stop by fight club on his next night off. Things were starting to get interesting. 


End file.
